


What Gets Lost in the Wind

by happy_to_be_here



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Sick Dean Winchester, Teen Dean Winchester, Teen Sam Winchester, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, Young Winchesters (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 17:18:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17791529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happy_to_be_here/pseuds/happy_to_be_here
Summary: For John Winchester and teenage Sam and Dean, the hunt is over. They should be relieved and on their way out of town. But something’s wrong in the backseat—and Sam won’t shut up about it.Young Dean's POV.





	What Gets Lost in the Wind

“That’s it— _there_.” Sam paused. “Why aren’t you stopping?”

Both Dean and Dad chose to ignore him. Dean chewed his knuckle and looked out the window, away from both of them. He could barely see anything beyond the side mirror of the Impala. It was raining so hard it looked like they were in the middle of a car wash. Dark bushes along the shoulder whipped in and out of view, lashing wildly in the wind.

In the last twenty minutes, Dad had not looked away from the road once as Sam kept up his constant whining. And Dean—well, Dean had other worries.

“Turn _around_. You missed it,” Sam insisted. He leaned forward to poke his head between the front seats.

Reluctantly, Dean cut his eyes over to his little brother. Sam had stretched his seatbelt so far that it was digging angrily into the crook of his neck. He was staring at Dad with his usual self-righteous intensity: expectant, demanding. Dad never appreciated that look very much and Dean could already see his fingers twitching on the steering wheel.

Dean planted a hand on Sam’s chest and pushed him back. “Stop strangling yourself.”

“Don’t push me,” Sam snapped. But he settled back against his seat, out of Dean’s view.

They drove in silence for a few minutes. Dean let his head rest against the cool glass of the window and closed his eyes. With one hand, he pulled the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck—even though he knew he wasn’t really cold. In fact, he was probably close to overheating; he felt damp under his armpits and at his hairline. Sweat dripped down his back between his shoulder blades. But still, Dean had to resist the urge to crawl inside his jacket and make a little sauna for himself. Probably not wise to leave Sam and Dad alone just yet.

Sure enough, not two minutes later, Sam was at it again. He dug his knees into the back of Dean’s seat. “I know you guys are hungry too. That was the last restaurant for fifty miles.”

Dad cleared his throat then. “We’re not stopping until Whitefish,” he informed them.

“ _Whitefish?_ That’s—Dad, you’re kidding. That’s _hours_ away—”

Dean turned his face toward the window and tried not to groan. He had to agree with Sam on this one. They didn’t even have any water.

“We don’t even have any water!” Sam protested aloud.

But Dad was stone: eyes ever on the road, jaw set. As usual, this was not a democratic process.

Dean sighed heavily (then he realized what he was doing and tried to pass it off as a cough). Dean twisted around in his seat and whispered to Sam along the wall, “Don’t you still have Pop-tarts?”

Sam bit his lip. “Yeah,” he admitted finally, then slipped out of the top half of his seatbelt to grab them from the floor. He shook the half-empty box at Dean. “You want some?”

Dean shook his head. He had tried about an hour ago, but only managed to choke down half of one—the dry powder scratched too much at his already tender throat. “You eat them.”

“They’re not good without water.”

“Then stick your head out the window.”

Dean had meant it sincerely (he’d considered doing it himself), but Sam got all offended. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and looked away from Dean.

“We could _easily_ stop to get real water,” he pouted.

Okay, this had to end. Dean glanced furtively at Dad, then reached behind his seat to flick Sam’s leg. “Well, we aren’t. So figure something else out,” he hissed.

Sam retaliated with a kick to Dean’s seat. And then, because he was a relentless little shit, he leaned forward again to tap Dad on the shoulder. “Can we at least stop so I can pee? Or is that not allowed either?”

Dean almost gasped—Sam was really playing with fucking fire here whether he knew it or not. But to Dean’s relief, Dad didn’t respond right away. He pretended like he hadn’t even heard Sam and, for a suspended moment, Dean wondered if he really wouldn’t let him pee.

But then the car started to slow. They bumped along the edge of the road until they hit a thick patch of trees and the shoulder widened out. Dad pulled off and stopped abruptly enough that Dean’s seatbelt had to catch him. With his hand gripping the armrest, Dean watched him, waiting for his next move. It felt like even the trees were holding their breath.

“Well, this is what you wanted. Be quick about it.”

A collective sigh of relief.

“Okay!” Sam scrambled to get ahold of the door handle. There was a loud rush of wind and rain as he flung the door open—and then he was gone, running off into the trees.

Dad turned on Dean next. “I’m not stopping again. Go now if you have to.”

Dean wiped sweat surreptitiously from the side of his face. “No, I’m okay.”

“Good.” Dad reached across him to pop open the glove compartment. He rooted around among the cluttered papers and abandoned billfolds, then came out with a battered pack of cigarettes. Without another word, he left too.

Dean watched Dad’s retreating back until he disappeared behind several curtains of rain. Inside the car, the air felt too-still; it was stifling. And every time Dean swallowed, it _hurt_. His scratchy tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Dean ran his hands through his hair, massaging his scalp, and then down his face. There was a headache building right behind his eyes, so he dug the heels of his palms into them. It helped a little. _This was fine. He was fine._ Once Sam settled down, Dean could sleep too and wake up in Whitefish.

Dean was already halfway to sleep against the window when Sam and Dad climbed back inside. Dean startled at the slam of the door and dropped his hands from his face. He sat up, Dad started the engine, and they pulled off the shoulder. Dean blinked against the sudden brightness of their headlights as they swept across the dark trees, catching the side of a shambled barn.

Even though they were all in here with the windows rolled up, Dad continued to smoke. He held the cigarette loosely in one hand, and tapped it against the dashboard in between every few drags. The second time, it sent down a shower of ash and a lit spark jumped onto Dean’s jeans. He ground it out.

Dean might have said something about how hard it would be to clean the dashboard, but he noticed the way Dad’s face had gone slack, his other hand holding the wheel gently, and decided to keep it to himself.

So instead, Dean propped one arm against the window and rested a knuckle on his temple. He wished they kept blankets in here. And water.

“Here, take this.”

It took Dean a long moment to realize that Dad was talking to him. When he glanced up and met his eyes, Dad passed him the cigarette butt. Dean hesitated, then took it. What now? Did Dad really want him to hold this until they found a trash can?

“Dean,” Dad laughed, and it wasn’t a mean laugh. “I’m offering it to you.”

“Oh.” Dean flushed. He considered the cigarette, rolling it between his fingers. “Okay, cool.”

Dean positioned it between his two fingers the way Dad had and tentatively brought it to his lips. At first he wasn’t sure if you were supposed to breathe in or out, so he let a little air out of the side of his mouth. Nothing happened. Then Dean breathed in, deeply, and it _burned_ down the back of his throat.

He jerked forward, coughing up clouds of smoke like some sort of ailing dragon. He pounded his fist against his chest, eyes watering. Dad laughed louder now and pulled the cigarette from between his fingers.

“At least I know you’re not sneaking them from me.”

Dean coughed again into his hands. His cheeks burned and he didn’t dare look in the back seat; Sam would definitely be laughing at him too.

Dad brought what was left of the cigarette back to his mouth and gripped it between his teeth. The lit end waggled up and down as he spoke, “Best not to smoke anyway, Dean. Either of you.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean sniffed. There were still tears in the corners of his eyes and his throat felt like someone had scrubbed it with sandpaper. He might die for a drink of water. Pride be damned, maybe he should actually roll down his window and stick his head out like a dog.

Maybe he should roll down his window _anyway_ because, by now, the whole car was filling up with the acrid, city smell of tobacco. Sam’s attitude must have done a complete 180 since he wasn’t already complaining.

Actually.

That was kind of suspicious.

Dean twisted slightly to peek at the backseat and— _Holy fuck. Holy fuck._

 

It was empty.

 

“Dad!” Dean screamed once he remembered how to form words. “Sam’s gone! He’s not—What—? Why’s he not—?”

Dean practically fell out of his seat trying to see if there was any chance Sam was actually still there—because maybe he was sitting on the floor for some reason. But, no. No Sam anywhere. When Dad turned around too, they almost skidded off the road. He barely slammed on the brakes in time and Dean wasn’t ready for it; he flew forward and his back rammed into the gear shift.

“Ow, _fuck_.” There was no time. Dean turned on Dad desperately. “Where could he be? Do you think something got him? Was there something—if it was in the car, how did we not realize?”

Dean was crying now; he felt borderline hysterical. Dad stared at him, stared _through_ him, then reached slowly for the keys in the ignition.

“No, I—” he started, then stopped. He glanced at Dean and there was a look that Dean didn’t quite recognize: guilt? “We’ll go back,” Dad whispered.

Dean stared at him uncomprehending, blinking through tears, and then—

“Oh my god.” Dean collapsed against his seat as he realized what they’d done. “We’re the worst people in the world.”

“We’ll go get him,” Dad said harshly. He threw the car into drive and spun them in a fast U-turn. They dowsed the plants at the side of the road in a tidal wave of water. _Was it raining even harder now?_ It sounded like someone was dumping gravel on the Impala’s metal roof.

Dean sat on the edge of his seat with his nose almost pressed into the windshield. He strained to see beyond even the headlights, searching for something that would tell him they were close to Sam. They flew past a smattering of dark houses and a handful of even smaller country lanes that branched from this one. _How long had it been? Ten minutes? Twenty?_

“There!” Dean grabbed Dad’s arm. It was the barn: red, peeling paint that he recognized. That he’d seen right as they pulled out. For a second time, they lurched to a stop and Dean braced against the dashboard, but he still felt his seatbelt lock around his waist and shoulders.

Then, the car was still. Everything was still. Dean panted, and waited. He expected Dad to jump out and go find Sam, because of course that’s what he should be doing. But Dad didn’t; he didn’t even move. Dean unbuckled and looked at him.

Dad had a grip on the steering wheel so tight that the tendons were jumping out on the back of his hand. Without looking at Dean, he said, “Tell him I’m sorry.”

_Christ._

Dean rammed his shoulder into the door as he threw it open. As soon as he stepped out, he felt like he was standing right at the base of a waterfall. He could feel the power of the water pounding him into the ground. Wind whipped his hair around his face and he could feel individual drops like hail hitting the top of his head, his shoulders, the tip of his nose. Looking both ways, he darted across the road.

“Sam!” Dean shouted when he got there, but his voice was sucked up by the wind. He cupped his hands around his mouth and ran toward the trees. “ _Sam!_ ”

There was a little relief from the rain under the tree canopy, but it was also so dark that Dean had to feel around like a blind man. His fingers brushed rough bark and patches of soaking moss. He stumbled forward, trying not to trip over exposed roots.

“Where the hell are you? _Sammy!_ ”

And then—Dean almost tripped over him. Sam was curled up against the trunk of the tree Dean was touching. He had his head tucked into his knees, the way he used to sit in the bathroom when he was hiding from thunderstorms.

Dean took a moment to send a silent _thank you_ to every deity he didn’t believe in, then dropped down in front of brother. He wrapped one hand around Sam’s skinny ankle, rested the other on his shoulder. His little brother’s skin felt like a cold fish under Dean’s palms—and from the way he reacted, recoiling, Dean’s warmth must have been just as shocking.

“Dean?” Sam asked before he’d fully lifted his head. He wiped the back of a hand across his wet brow.

“It’s me.” Dean put his hand like a visor over Sam’s eyes so he could see it was really him. “I’m so sorry, Sammy.”

“ _Dean_.” Sam grabbed at Dean’s sleeve, making a fist in the wet fabric to pull him closer. Dean let himself be pulled.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m cold,” answered Sam. And that was an understatement. Dean was already soaked himself, so he didn’t want to imagine what Sam must feel like.

“I know; I’m sorry. _Jesus,_ I’m so sorry.” Dean tipped his head forward so his forehead touched Sam’s. “Let’s get you to the car.”

Then, Dean slid a hand under Sam’s arms, around his back, and hoisted him to his feet. Sam shook against him. Slowly, they shuffled back toward the road, leaning into each other like they were doing a three-legged race. Dean’s socks squished with every step.

“Dean,” said Sam and his fist tightened in the back of Dean’s jacket.

“Yeah?”

Sam chewed his lip and stared up at him. Then he asked, “Did he leave me on purpose?”

That pulled Dean up short. His eyes darted away from Sam’s face, then back. “Of course not, Sammy. It was a huge mistake. We both—we both feel terrible.”

Sam nodded, his shoulders slumped. He took another step forward, and said very, very quietly, "So you didn’t notice.”

It wasn’t even an accusation. He just sounded defeated by it, and that—more than even the words—made Dean want to throw himself into incoming traffic.

When they came out on the side of the road opposite the Impala, it was like stepping out from under an awning: waves of fresh rain stung their cold faces. Dean tightened his arm around Sam to lift him over the small ditch that separated the forest from the shoulder, then took him by the shoulders.

“You have no idea how fucking sorry I am,” Dean told him over the roaring wind.

“I know,” said Sam. He swallowed, then pressed his face into Dean’s shoulder, practically sticking his nose in Dean’s armpit. Dean stroked his wet hair. As he held Sam, he could feel water pooling in his shoes and sliding down his back under his t-shirt. But he didn’t mind so much anymore. Weirdly, it was almost nice. Like drinking from a glass of cold water after being parched all day. Dean tilted his head up to catch more of the rain and even opened his mouth to wet his dry tongue.

He felt Sam pull away slightly and looked down.

“I _knew_ you had a fever!” Sam exclaimed, his eyes bright. He banged on Dean’s chest with his fists. “Why wouldn’t you tell him to stop?”

“Don’t hit me.” Dean caught Sam’s hands and stilled him. He didn't particularly want to talk to Sam about this, so he looked across at the Impala. “Dad’s waiting for us.”

He pulled on Sam's wrists and, reluctantly, Sam followed him. Together, they ran to the car with their arms over their heads, shoes slipping on the slick asphalt. Just short of the back door, Dean stopped Sam with an arm across his chest. He shrugged out of his jacket and held it over both of their heads as a makeshift umbrella.

“Get as much water out now as you can,” Dean suggested.

Sam obeyed. He shook his head vigorously like a dog and wrung the water from his sleeves. Then he bent over and bunched his fists into the hem of his jeans. When he finished, he was still soaked. But at least not dripping.

Dean settled the coat around his shoulders and tugged on the collar so Sam would look up at him. Dean met his eyes.

“It’s not your job to take care of me,” he told Sam sternly. “Don’t fight with Dad on my behalf, okay?”

Sam shuffled on his feet (or maybe he was just shivering). “But you don’t ever say anything, even when you should.”

Dean tried not to roll his eyes. “That’s my decision to make. Now, _get in._ ”

With his hands on Sam’s shoulders, Dean steered him toward the door and held it open for him. Inside, it was quieter, sheltered from the wind, but no one said anything as Sam crawled across the bench and buckled in behind Dean’s seat. He didn’t look at Dad once. Gently, Dean shut Sam's door and made his way around the front of the Impala to his own seat. Before he was even buckled, they were moving again.

It took a few miles, but finally Dean caught Dad glancing at Sam’s huddled form in the rearview mirror. Dad didn’t notice Dean watching as he fiddled with the A/C knob to turn the heat all the way up, then flipped all the vents so they pointed back at his youngest. Shaking his head, Dean sighed and looked back at the road in front of them.

Silently the three Winchesters drove on.

They didn’t stop again until Whitefish.


End file.
